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Poems Write Themselves

Poems write themselves
as I dream
with the one I love,
with the one I can’t have.
They write themselves with
terrifying ugliness and with
words I repressed
when I was awake. Last
night a few poems carved
themselves to my heart.
Little poems,
simple and to the point.
I did not correct them.
The poems needed to be
shared. Mercilessly,
they drew my blood.


The Night That Would Not End

The night that would not end
shook up my mind and my heart.
It was the middle of July.
The stars were beautiful.

The world was flat tonight.
A woman made me sad.
I sigh forever longing.
My heart weighed its options.
Life made no sense without her.

She was not the only woman
in the world. But she was for me.
This fact remains. I face
the street with tired eyes.
My heart is beat down.
The night that would not end
delivered a curse. The stars glow.
They remain beautiful.

Take Me to the Sea

You bring home the oranges.
You take me to the sea
and I love you for that.
You comb your dark hair and
you leave me without breath.

You wear your dark hair long and
you make me orange juice.
I fall for your warmth and
I go around singing.

You bring home the oranges.
You take me to the sea
and I love you for that
like I love no other.


Copyright © 2011 Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal was born in Mexico . He lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles , CA . His first book of poetry, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His poetry in English and Spanish has been published in print and online journals. His latest chapbook, Digging A Grave, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions.